


A gentle touch

by Multifandom_damnation



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bipolar Disorder, Blood and Injury, Bruises, Burns, Caretaking, Dysfunctional Family, Excessive Drinking, Family Dynamics, Gen, Missing Scene, Protective Ian Gallagher, Protective Siblings, References to Depression, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29653314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Multifandom_damnation/pseuds/Multifandom_damnation
Summary: Ian loved being an EMT but that caretaking persona had to come from somewhere, right?(A few of the times that Ian has proven how much he loved his family just by taking care of them when they needed it)
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & The Gallaghers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	A gentle touch

**Author's Note:**

> I promise, this is the last Shameless fic I'm going to write, I swear! I just couldn't get this idea out of my head. If anyone is confused, it goes in order of age, so it starts off from when Ian is really young to when he's an adult (up to date) and I also had the siblings down in order of age. I hope that makes sense. I also hope that this doesn't come across as me saying that Ian is the only one who takes care of his siblings, I just think that he was an EMT for a reason, you know? Anyway. I hope you really like it because it was a killer to write but I'm very happy with the end result x

It's mid-afternoon, and Ian slowly makes the short trek to Monica's room with a plate of food and a coffee balanced precariously in his hands. The door is closed, not locked, and the room is just as dark as it was when he was there last night. The cold, state plate of food that he had left her for dinner is still sitting on the bedside table. Monica is wrapped up in her blankets, her back to Ian, facing the wall.

She doesn't acknowledge him, but she never does. "Hi, mum," he says as he enters the room. He places the steaming coffee on the table, exchanges the dinner plate for the breakfast one. "You feeling alright? Sorry, you don't have to answer that," a thought comes to him, and he cranes over the bed to place the back of his hand against her forehead like Fiona always does for them when they are sick. She protests weakly and swats at his arm, and Ian pulls away. "Sorry. I just wanted to check. I hope you feel better. Uh, shout if you need anything."

He closes the door behind him, knowing that the coffee nor the eggs would be touched when he came up to give her lunch and that she would still be facing the wall, curled up in the dark.

* * *

He finds Fiona in the upstairs bathroom, hissing as she rinses her hands under the sink. There are flecks of blood on the basin, and she grits her teeth at the sting. 

"Hey," he says from the doorway. "Are you alright?"

She glances up at him in the mirror and forces a smile onto her face, but he knows her well enough to see the strain around her eyes, the tightness to her lips. "Yeah, Ian, I'm alright," she shuts off the sink as he takes tentative steps forwards. "Just had a run-in with a bunch of broken glass, is all."

Her hands are cut up, tonnes of tiny gashes running across the length of her palm. Her skin is smeared with blood, and the cuts bleed sluggishly. He thinks they might have been bleeding for a while, but he can't be sure. "What happened?"

"Ah, nothing," she uses the back of her hand to push the hair around her face. 

"Should I get Lip?"

Fiona shakes her head. "No, I'm alright. Thanks, though."

She probably means to dismiss him. He ignores this and proceeds deeper into the bathroom, digging through the cupboards until he spots the sparse first aid kit, wedged between bottles of shampoo and their stash of toilet paper and little sample bottles of perfume that Monica had taken from a chemist on one of her good days. Fiona protests weakly as Ian pulls it down onto the counter and digs through it. "Give me your hands," he instructs as he begins unwrapping band-aids and discarding the wrappers to the floor. He grips her hands in his and carefully applied the bandaids. She watches him carefully, head cocked to the side, a small smile on her face. "Does it hurt? Do you want me to wrap it in bandages too?"

Smiling, Fiona reaches up and cups Ian's cheeks. The bandaids make her touch uncomfortable and scratchy, but he doesn't pull away. "Thank you,"

"Don't worry about it," he says. "You look after us all the time. It's nothing."

"All the same," she watches as he closes the first aid kit and slides it back in it's hiding spot on the shelf between the mostly-empty bottles. "I appreciate it."

He shrugs. It's no big deal. "I'll get dinner started."

* * *

He finds Frank, as he often does, on his back on the kitchen floor, face pressed into the tiles, snoring heavily. Ian knows that he should be more like Lip, step over his body and make his way to bed, pretending he never saw him. But seeing him lying there prone on the ground, stinking of bad alcohol and vomit and piss, he couldn't shake the thought of Debbie being the one to see his dead body the next morning. 

Sighing, Ian places his things on the counter, dropping his house keys on the linoleum. He kneels on the cold tiles and manhandles Frank onto his side. If he vomits in his sleep, at least he won't choke on it. Frank's eyes flutter open just long enough for him to scan Ian's face, and he muttered something about 'Monica' and 'ungrateful wastes of sperm', flapping weakly at Ian's chest before his eyes roles back into his head and he passes back out.

Rolling his eyes, Ian beings unpacking groceries. Putting milk in the fridge, cereal in the pantry, napkins on the counter. Frank continues to snore in his drunken stupor, no longer at risk of choking on his own puke. Ian steps over him and goes to bed.

* * *

It's so early in the morning that Ian can feel it in his bones, his eyes ache, his head screams at him to return to the warm safety of his bed, and he's drinking from a cool glass of water in the kitchen when Lip stumbles through the front door. His shirt is stained, and his jeans are torn, and his hands and knees are scraped and bloody. 

He stumbles into the house, making it half-way to the kitchen counter before one of his legs gives out and he topples down like a sack of bricks, swearing. Ian put down his glass and makes his way around the counter to join him. "What the hell? Are you OK?" Ian helps him up and is hit sharply by the putrid and easily familiar scent of alcohol and puke. "Where have you been?"

"Out," Lip gestures vaguely. The motion sends him falling further into Ian's grip. 

Ian bites his lip. He takes Lip's hand in his, turning it over to see his palm. His knees are just as ruined, bleeding and torn, flaps of skin barely attached, the unhappy flesh looking pink and irritated. "What happened to you?"

"Was running," Lip shrugs. "I fell."

Instead of replying, Ian leads Lip to the kitchen table and tried to sit him down. Lip fights him. "Sit down," Ian shoves him, and Lip goes down easily. "Take off your pants."

He doesn't wait for an answer and begins unbuttoning and zipping Lip's pants and yanking them roughly down his legs, taking extra care around his knees. He takes a moment to mourn the holes in the denim and how devastated Fiona will be when she learns that Lip is down a pair, before he hastily shoves it in the washing machine and instructs Lip to stay while he goes to fetch the first aid kit.

Thankfully, Lip stays exactly where Ian left him, sitting at the kitchen table in just his underwear, trying and failing to keep his hands still enough to light a cigarette, cursing. Ian places the first aid kit on the table and holds the lighter for Lip, keeping the flame still until the end of the smoke smouldered and ignited. Lip made a mumbled sound of thanks. Ian digs through the first aid kit in search of bandages and anti-septic rub. The bottle is almost empty, but he pours some out onto a cloth anyway and gently rubs it over the bleeding mess of Lip's knees.

"Ow," he complains, trying to kick out at Ian, but Ian easily keeps his legs still. "Stop that."

"Don't winge," Ian says as he takes great care in tending to Lip's knees, wiping away the crusted blood clinging to his skin, trying not to gag at the tangy smell of iron and medical supplies. "You did this to yourself. Now you have to live with the consequences."

"You can be a little more gentle," Lip breaths smoke into his face, and Ian waves it away. "That stings."

Ian doesn't answer. He plucks a roll of bandage from the kit and carefully begins to wrap it around Lip's knees. "What even happened?"

"The fucking Milkovich brothers ran me out of the Alibi," Lip grumbles. "Bunch of bastards, the lot of them. Tripped over a rubbish bin, but I lost them. They're so dull that they probably didn't even know who they were chasing."

Though he feels bad for laughing, Ian can't help himself and he ties off the bandages and moves on to Lip's hands. They were equally as torn from where he had caught his fall, but they were studded with rocks and dusted with dirt and blood. "You need to be more careful, you know." he gently dusts his palms off. "Especially when you're out drinking at all hours of the night like this."

Lip offers him the cigarette and Ian lets him place it in his mouth. He takes a long drag as he wraps bandages around Lip's palms, and Lip pulls it back when Ian pulls away. Neither of them speaks for a few moments, and Ian concentrates on the careful winding of shitty bandages around Lip's bleeding hands. When he's satisfied, he stands up. "Are you ready for bed?"

He helps Lip take his shirt off, lifting his arms up and pulling it roughly over his head before throwing that in the wash along with his torn jeans before he kneels down again and helps Lip take off his socks. Lip places a hand on Ian's head, threading his fingers in his hair, tugging a little too hard. "You've got a big heart, you know," Lip says absently. "You're going to make a great doctor, one day."

Shaking his head, Ian helps Lip stand and half-carries him up the stairs, supporting him as he made it across the landing, and guided him towards the beds. Lip collapses, muttering to himself, on Ian's bed, and Ian tucks him in under the covers. He cleans up downstairs and climbs the ladder to Lip's bunkbed. He falls asleep listening to Lip snoring thickly and the room stinking of alcohol.

* * *

He's just walking through the front door when Debbie yelps, followed by the clattering of cutlery against the tiles and the slamming of the oven door. He runs inside, panic blooming in his chest, and sees Debbie crouched on the kitchen floor, holding her arm with one hand with tears in her eyes. 

"Hey," he says gently, crouching beside her. He takes her arm. "What happened?"

"I tried to pull the tray out of the oven, but I burnt myself," she tells him through clenched teeth, hissing at the pain that made her nerves sing. "Ian, it _hurts_."

"I know, I know," he hushes her gently and gingerly ushes her over to the sink, where he runs the cold water and shoves her arm under it. There's a misshapen patch of red on her forearm where she had touched the inside of the oven, and he douses it under the water. He can tell that she's trying not to cry by biting her lip, and he rubs her back with the hand not holding her arm. "Stay like this, I'll be back."

He runs upstairs and comes back with a jar of vaseline and a roll of bandage that he hopes is clean. Debbie hasn't moved from the sink, but she's snivelling and wiping her nose with her sleeve. "Here, come here," he turns off the tap and rotates her to face him. He kneels as he rubs a scoop of vaseline over the burn, gently spreading it out evenly, before wrapping it loosely with the bandage. "There. Is that any better?"

"Yeah," she mutters, sheepish. "Thanks."

"You need to be more careful," he chides lightly as he hunts through the cupboards for their secret stash of pain-killers. "I know it was just a one-time thing, but I don't want you hurt, OK? If you need to do anything like that, just come and get one of us. I think Lip is upstairs."

Debbie takes a hasty step back when he tries to offer her the painkillers. "No," she shakes her head. "We need those. I'm alright, I don't need them."

Ian doesn't let her argue. He places them in her hand and closes her fingers around them. "Take two with food," he says, "We can get more, Debs. You're hurt, so you need them."

She looks down at them with a stricken, conflicting look on her face before she tightens her hold on them. "Thanks, Ian."

He places a kiss on her crown before he walks around her and collapses on the couch.

* * *

Ian is woken in the middle of the day by the sharp, sudden sound of a door slamming somewhere downstairs, and he reluctantly rolls out of bed and stumbles down the stairs to see what the hell is going on. 

He is surprised to see Carl standing in the lounge room, his back to Ian, his head down, his fists clenched at his sides. He hadn't come home last night, and he is wearing the same clothes as he was when he left. Ian slowly creeps down the stairs, and he thinks he can hear Carl sniffling. "Carl?" he calls gently as he entered the lounge room. "Hey, man. Are you alright?"

Carl whips around to face him. His face is red, and he is so angry that he is holding back tears, his mouth twisted in a harsh line, seething. "What do you want?"

"Hey," Ian rises his hands, placating. "What the hell happened?"

"Nothing. I don't want to talk about it," Carl turns away. He would have left if Ian didn't place a hand on his shoulder. Carl tries to shove him off, thrusting his hands in his pockets. He's angry, but he doesn't try very hard. Almost as if he wants Ian to stop him. "What do you want?"

Biting his lip, Ian walks around Carl, looking him up and down. "Are you alright?"

Carl nods, refusing to meet Ian's worried gaze. "'m fine."

"It's not that I don't believe you," Ian says. Carl scoffs, but Ian likes to think that it was in humour and not in contentment. He checks Carl over, scrutinying every inch of him, and pulls Carl's hands out of his pockets. Carl goes with him without much fuss, but he stares down at his shoes as Ian runs his fingers over his bruised and bleeding knuckles, swollen and purple and cracked. "Woah. Did you win?"

"Yeah, that brick wall never saw it coming," Carl's joke falls flat, and he watches Ian watch him.

Ian raises an eyebrow. Carl has a bruise on his jaw, but he doubts he'd want to talk about that. "You picking fights with inanimate objects now? I didn't think that was your style."

He tries not to sound so worried, but he can tell that it still comes across that way, and Carl tries to pull his hand away, but Ian tightens his hold. It's obvious that Carl doesn't want to discuss it, so Ian doesn't push, just gently runs his fingers across the discoloured skin. "Come on, man. I'm not Liam. You don't have to worry about me. I'm fine. I've had worse."

"I'm sure you have," Ian says. He nods towards the kitchen. "Come on. Wash your hands, get the blood off."

Begrudgingly, Carl follows him to the kitchen and washes his hands in the sink, scrubbing at the dried blood crusted around his knuckles and wincing at the harsh treatment. Ian riffles through the freezer for two bags of peas. He weighs them in his hands, satisfied, and walks back to the lounge room. Carl turns off the tap and follows him, joining Ian on the couch.

"Here," Ian folds his hands over, places the bags gingerly on his knuckles. "This should help the swelling. Really, you should have a cold compress and have your hands up near your clavicle, but I doubt you want me to go and get the duct tape and tape them to you," Carl shook his head. "Didn't think so."

He is aware of Carl watching him, but he tries not to pay any attention. "You're good at this kind of stuff."

Ian shrugs, picking up the remote and turning on the TV. "I try. Someone's gotta be the doctor around here, and it sure as hell isn't going, to be Frank." 

That makes Carl laugh, and Ian ruffles his hair, much to his dismay, and he finds the channel he was looking for, and the two of them sit there for hours watching bad cartoons until Carl's hands are numb.

* * *

Liam knocks on his bedroom door shyly one afternoon, when everyone else is at work or too busy, holding his hand out in front of him. "Ian?"

"Yeah?" Ian stands. "Are you alright?"

The face Liam makes is almost as if he has sucked on a sour lemon. "Can you help me?"

"Uh," Ian inches forwards. "Yeah?"

A hand is shoved into his field of vision and he is staring at Liam's finger. It's bleeding slightly and red, and Ian has to squint to see the thick splinter that has buried itself under Liam's nail. "I know, it's stupid," Liam says hurriedly. "But it really hurts and I don't know how to get it out. I tried, but it's with my weaker hand."

Grinning, Ian leaves and returns with a set of tweezers. He pushes Liam onto his bed and joins him, his legs folded beneath him. "Debbie is probably the better one to ask, considering she's probably got to do a lot of this tuff with Franny," he says as he brings Liam's finger closer to his face. "But I guess I'm not too bad."

It takes a lot longer than Ian was expecting, and Liam holds back his complaints by biting his tongue and hissing like a feral cat, but eventually, Ian does manage to slowly remove the splinter from under Liam's nail. It is admittedly very large, long and thick and jagged, and it's removal left a spreading pool of blood in its wake. They both peer at it, caught between the teeth of the tweezers. "How did you even get this?"

Liam shrugged. "I was trying to clean up the back yard a bit so Franny and I could play in the pool after school. She's been wanting to for a while, but everyone's been busy."

Ian hummed. Liam pulled away, blinking tears from his eyes. "Do you want to keep it?"

"Keep the splinter?" Liam made a face. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Show it off at school," Ian laughs. "Tell them all how tough you are."

"Is that something that you did?"

"No, but I'm sure it's something that Lip did."

When Liam rolls his eyes, Ian can't help but laugh. "I'm not surprised. Just put it in the bin. That's gross," Liam climbed off the bed and made his way towards the door, sucking on his poor finger. "Thanks, Ian."

"Don't sweat it," Ian drops the splinter in the bin and returns to his afternoon nap.

* * *

He's eating popcorn on the couch when Debbie barges into the front door, dragging Franny by the arm. 

"What's going on?" he frowns. Franny is screaming like a banshee, and Debbie looks like she isn't too close behind.

"She definitely takes after her mother," Debbie says in way of answer. "She got into a fight at preschool. Don't worry, the kid totally deserved it but she's been suspended for the rest of the week."

He watches as Franny yanks herself from her mothers grasp and stands in the foyer, screaming at the top of her lungs. "What's wrong with her then?"

Debbie looks despondent. "I don't know. I think the damn kid might have bruised her. Fucking brat is just as bad as he spoilt bitch of a mother," she wanders away, probably to find something to placate her screaming daughter, and Franny stands behind the couch, tears streaming from her eyes and howling like she's been stabbed.

Ian places his bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. He twists around so he can face her, and she stops screaming just long enough to laugh faintly at the goofy face he makes. "Hey Franny," he wiggles his fingers. "Come here."

She folds her hands over her chest and stumbles around to the front of the couch, shyly coming to sit beside Ian. "Where does it hurt?"

Sniffling, she pulls up her shirt and exposes her side to him, where there is a big red mark that is definitely going to grow into a dark bruise that spanned the length of her hip. "He pushed me into a table," she said. "So I punched him in the face."

"Good girl," Ian praises, though he knows he probably shouldn't. He runs a hand across her side. It was hot to the touch. "Do you want me to make it feel better?" she nods. He bends forwards and places a loud, sloppy kiss on her torso. She giggles and squirms away. "And here?" he surges up and does the same to her nose. "What about here?" he places a kiss on her forehead. "Do you feel any better?"

She giggles and buries herself into his side. "Better."

He glances at the TV, switches off the movie he was watching and finds the kids channel. He reaches for the bowl he had almost forgotten was on the table. "You want some popcorn while we wait for your mum?"

Debbie comes back a few minutes later and sees Ian and Franny curled up on the couch eating from the bowl of popcorn. Franny's cheeks are wet but she is no longer crying, and Ian has his arms wrapped around her. She backs away and leaves them in search of a drink.

* * *

Ian is woken abruptly from a wonderful dream by the now-all-too-familiar sound of a baby crying.

In the other room, he can hear Lip and Tami arguing in hushed tones, and after a few minutes of this, Ian sighs and detaches herself from Mickey's side, placing a kiss on his crown when Mick reaches for him and makes his way through the hallways.

The argument gets louder as Ian comes closer. Freddy is crying, but it's a kind of crying that Ian hasn't heard before, more than a hungry cry or a lonely cry. He glances in the room- Tami and Lip are arguing in the dark, their back to him. He rolls his eyes at their common argument and reaches into the crib to pull Freddy up, wrapping his arms around him like he used to with Yev, and cradles him in his arms as he wanders back into the hallway.

As Ian slowly starts to bob up and down, Freddy's crying peters off and he fists his tiny hands into the fabric of Ian's shirt and lets himself be rocked. He buries his face into the crook of Ian's neck and breathes slowly. It takes Ian a moment to realize just how hot Freddy is under his hand, and with a frown, Ian takes them both to the bathroom. The bright light is too sudden and he has to squint as he riffles through the cupboard for the thermometer. Freddy has a mild temperature and a splotchy red rash that spreads across his bare, milky skin. Ian runs his hands across it, and Freddy blows a bubble of snot onto his shoulder.

Tami appears at his shoulder, evidently having lost the argument. "Hey. Thanks," she says and holds her hands out. "I'll take him now."

But Ian doesn't hand him back. "He's sick," he says and holds out a hand when her face is stricken. "No, he's alright. He's got a mild fever and a rash, and I'm almost 100% sure it's roseola infantum. It'll last from a few hours to a few days, and it's infectious, so be careful. He needs fluid, and rest."

Freddy has already begun to fall asleep on his shoulder, and Ian has to pry his hand from his shirt when he hands him back to her. She is looking at him suspiciously. "How do you know?"

"I was an EMT for a little while," he puts away the thermometer. "I'm not an expert, but I made sure I knew the basics on things like this. Thought it would be useful. I'm glad I did,"

He hands Freddy to her and heads back to his room. He sees Lip standing at the doorway, and he nods his thanks. Ian climbs back into bed, and Mickey wraps his arms around him, sticks his fingers in the waistband of his pants, and he fell back asleep to the sound of Freddy babbling. 

* * *

Ian is lured into the kitchen by the sound of venomous swearing, and should not have been surprised to find Mickey rifling through the cupboards. "Hey," he calls. "What's going on?"

When Mickey turns around, Ian feels like he's been punched in the face, which is coincidentally what seems to have happened to Mickey. His face is blotchy and marred with bruises and his left eye is swelling. There is a cut on his lip that has been bleeding down his chin, "What do you fucking think?"

"That you picked a fight with the wrong bonehead?" Ian teases as he sits Mickey down on the toilet seat and begins to wet a cloth. 

"Very funny," Mickey gripes. Ian has to laugh, and he turns off the sink. "You should be a comedian."

"Franny says I'm too intimidating to be a comedian. I'm sure she was probably mistaking me for you, though," Ian wrings out the towel in the sink, letting the warm water drip from between his fingers and land in the basin. Mickey is watching him with a raised eyebrow, but with his face looking bloodied and bruised and swollen, the effect isn't quite what he wanted it to be. "But, seriously. What happened? Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," Mickey dismisses. There must be something in the way Ian looks at him because he ultimately sighs and shakes his head. "Some morons thought they could earn some street rep by beating up the famous Mickey Malkovich, but I taught them a lesson they won't soon forget."

Ian has to laugh as he gently dabs the wet washcloth across his chin. " _Infamous_ , you mean," Ian corrects him sweetly and Mickey rolls his eyes. Ian gently holds Mickey's chin between his fingers as he moves to wipe at his temple. Mickey's eyes never leave his. "I hope you left them breathing, at least."

Huffing, Mickey tries to swat Ian's hands away, but Ian doesn't let them. "Yeah, they're breathing, though they fucking shouldn't be. I just heard your annoying, whiney voice in my head telling me not to kill them, and I knew that you would have me sleeping on the floor tonight if I did."

He can't help his grin as he wipes away the blood. Mickey scowls at him. "I'm flattered, Mr Gallagher. Although, I would appreciate it if you would come home a little less damaged next time."

"Well, Mr Milkovich, sometimes I don't get a fucking choice," Mickey retorts. Ian has a shit-eating grin that he doesn't try to hide. "Now stop mother-ing me and bend down so I can kiss you."

Grinning, Ian stops Mickey with a finger on his lips. "Not yet,"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because you just got into a fight and your face looks worse than it usually does," Ian says. He gently prods the puffy flesh around Mickey's eye and Mickey hisses. "And I want to take care of you to make sure I get to look at my handsome husband every morning."

"Please, as if you won't still fuck me if I was bloodied and bruised," Mickey scoffs, but he allows Ian to tend to him, carefully dabbing away the blood with the wet cloth. "You mother hen. You're just lucky you're pretty."

"Pretty, huh? I like the sound of that," Ian runs his thumb across Mickey's lower lip, and Mickey is looking up at Ian with wide, hazy eyes and his mouth falls open a little and Ian ducks down to place a chaste kiss against those bleeding and very kissable lips. "Go downstairs and put some ice on your face, and then I'll fuck you until you can't walk."

The expression on Mickey's face is one that Ian knew very well, and when Mickey slowly stands up, Ian steps back to give him room, and Mickey kisses him with a passion that has become so familiar, and he tastes of dirt and sweat and blood, and Ian wouldn't have him any other way. Without another word, Mickey leaves the bathroom in search of ice. Ian knows that Mickey would detour straight from the kitchen to their bedroom, and would probably discard the packet of peas the moment Ian walked in, and they would be left to defrost on the ground.

Ian wipes Mickey's blood off his hands and leaves to find his husband and his very kissable lips.

* * *

(They enter the house in an over-lap of conversation, Tami carrying Freddy, Debbie and Lip and Mickey all arguing about something or other, and Carl leading Franny in by the hand while Liam lags behind, carrying a large portion of the shopping. Earlier in the day, while they had all been out, going about their own business, they converged on the shops at the same time and all walked home together. Now, they walk into their childhood home together and see Ian hunched over the kitchen sink, blood dribbling from his nose.

All conversation ceased. Mickey is the first to recover. "What the fuck?"

Ian gestures vaguely. "Nothing. Just Frank. Tried to stop him from taking off with some money, and he punched me in the face. It's alright though. I pushed him and he smacked his head against the wall."

Lip peers into the loungeroom to where Frank was passed out, face-down on the couch, a patch of red plastered in the back of his hair. "Fuck him," he says and means it. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah, Lip, I'm fine," Ian tries to shove Lip away when he begins prodding at his face, but Lip isn't hearing any of it. "Come on, there's blood."

"I can fucking see that," Mickey has his arms crossed, alternating between seething with anger and glancing at Ian with worry. "All this over money?"

"You know Frank," Ian grumbles. He spits blood into the sink.

Liam drops the bags in the kitchen and rushes up the stairs. "I'll get the first aid kit!" he announces. Carl nudges Tami and hands her Franny, and Tami takes the kids up the stairs. 

Debbie sighs and riffles through the bags. "I would love to help, but we've got things that are going to melt. Besides, I think you guys have it handled. Don't forget to use the ice so the swelling goes down faster. I've got a bag of corn here."

Wordlessly, Lip takes it from her and wets a cloth in the sink. Carl is staring past them to the living room with a displeased look on his face. "I guess I'll take care of Frank," he wrinkles his nose and moves past them.

"Really, guys, I'm fine," Ian tries to protest. His words come out wet and nasally. Lip ignores him and begins wiping the blood away from his face. "Guys- I'm not a kid anymore. I can take care of myself."

"Shut the fuck up, Gallagher," Mickey says, but there isn't any heat behind it. He reaches out, takes Ian's hand from where it's hanging at his side, and doesn't care that it's covered in slick blood. "Just sit still."

It's not as if Ian has many choices, so he resigns himself to the frantic caretaking. Debbie is watching him from where she is putting away the most temperature fragile of the groceries but isn't getting involved, obviously assured that two worry-warts are enough. He can hear Carl in the lounge room, berating a drunk and probably concussed Frank to get off the couch and get out of the house. Franny is running around upstairs, helping Liam gather supplies and the first aid kit while Tami is sort of standing back and monitoring at the same time. Lip is tutting as he wipes at Ian's face. Mickey is standing close by, squeezing Ian's hand.

Lip bites his lip. "I don't think it's broken, but it'll definitely be bruised. There's a lot of blood."

Ian reaches a hand up and wraps his fingers around Lip's wrist. "Lip," he says. "I'm fine. Relax."

"Listen to your husband," Lip says, "And shut the fuck up. Come here, sit down."

Unable to argue, Ian lets Lip and Mickey tow him to the dining table and sit him down on one of the many chairs there. Mickey sits beside him, a hand on his shoulder like he is worried Ian will fall apart at any moment, and Lip stands before him, tilting his neck back and looking down at him. Everyone flutters around him, alternating from proving advice and asking for updates and chiding Frank's behaviour.

"I'm alright, you know. I mean it," Ian tries to argue. "It's just a bloodied nose. I've taken worse, and from Frank, no less."

"How about," Mickey mutters into the back of his neck. "You take that stick ou of your ass and let us take care of you, huh?"

"Listen to your husband," Lip repeats, smirking like an idiot. Ian flips him the bird, and his grin grows wider.

So Ian sits at the table, surrounded by family, and lets himself be cared for.)


End file.
